Feast or Famine
by InkyTrue
Summary: A Mother's Day story from Gulls Way.


Sarah had known the signs to watch for. The boys of Gulls Way weren't the only ones who knew how to do a bit of sleuthing. She sighed as she folded the last of the laundry. She supposed it came naturally to her now after she had been with the Judge for so long. While he didn't outwardly display his sadness about his wife and son, on certain days he shut himself away, made excuses to be away or was just generally shut down. Now she started noticing the same traits popping up in his protege. Mark McCormick was generally a happy-go-lucky young man, eager to smile or joke when the situation presented itself. Only rarely did he get angry or out of sorts and usually you could trace the root of it. But not on certain days, Sarah had noticed. Those days he acted just like his mentor. He was far away from Gulls Way even if he was sitting right next to you. The only tip off was, he wouldn't eat.

"Like an animal off his feed he would push his food around on his plate, make excuses not to eat meals and in general just made himself scarce. Ordinarily low hanging fruit comments by the Judge that made for lively banter fell flat and the mood that settled at the estate was decidedly subdued. Not that Sarah couldn't use the break from the never ending boundless energy the men seemed to have in their approach to their work. But Gulls Way wasn't Gulls Way without the easy give and take between the two. It just wasn't right.

So Sarah, ever practical, set out to remedy the situation. The first year she resolved to make his favorites on those days. The day his mother passed on. The day he first arrived at San Quentin. The day Flip Johnson died. But she noticed that nothing could entice him on those days. Not even his favorite dishes. Oh, she figured that out as well. Careful attention to the boy's chatter easily gave her a "favorites repertoire" from which to pull. Non-lumpy mashed potatoes was at the top of the list. Whenever there were mashed potatoes on the table, they were silky smooth. She noticed His Honor even refrained from comment when they, rather than his preferred chunky style, showed up.

While sweeping the back steps she had heard (how could she not?) the boisterous calls of Mark and his old cellmate Teddy Hollins sitting around the pool crowing about the best meals they ever had. A game they played in prison to keep their minds off where they were. "Nah, Skid, you're wrong. You never had ribs until you had 'em in Tennessee." "Ted, I'm telling ya, Rory's Ribs - no contest. Flip used to bring in it by the bucketload when we were working late. Sauce so thick you'd lick oil off your fingers figuring it was the sauce!" The two would fall into heaps of laughter and then start up again. Sarah had made a call to Rory's Ribs, a long distance call, to Florida no less…

Oh yes, Sarah was sly. As sly as Mark could be when being evasive before donning his midnight black clothing and knapsack. She never served the ribs when it was nearing Flip's remembrance day. She never served the potatoes right before the date of entry to San Quentin, and she made sure that strawberry shortcake never arrived on Mother's Day or touched the table on the date of his mother's death. Sarah understood subtlety.

Just then Sarah was startled out of her thoughts as the kitchen's back door banged open. "Hey, Sarah!" The ever ebullient voice called out. "Mark." "Hoo-ey! It's hot out there! Got anything to tide a good man over?" he asked giving his stomach a hardy two handed slap. She gave him a pointed look. "Well, okay," he faltered a bit. "A so-so man?" he added wistfully. She smiled a wry smile and pointed to the dining room. There, on the table was a spread of ribs that tasted amazingly like a small shack's somewhere in the swamps of Florida. Mark's face brightened considerably. "Really? Sarah's famous Rory's Ribs?!" Sarah gave a curt nod, but held up a firm hand. "Which no one eats until they've cleaned their hands and called His Honor for Dinner." "Done and done," Mark grinned as he bounded out of the room. 'Hey, Hardcase!" she heard him bellow down the hall. He would be different in three days, when he'd remember that Sunday was Mother's Day, somber, withdrawn and refusing to eat. But Sarah would make sure to fatten him up in the days leading to it so he wouldn't starve. She sighed with contentment. She figured that mothers had to stick together.


End file.
